Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 139.djvu/803

This paragraph,omitted from a letter previously published, is here given for the startling beauty of the last lines:—

It reminded me too of 'Little Annie,' of whom you feared to make the mistake in saying 'Shoulder Arms' to the 'Colored Regiment'^[1] but which was the Child of Fiction, the Child of Fiction or of Fact, and is 'Come unto Me' for Father or Child, when the Child precedes?

The following letter was written when a second little daughter had come to fill the aching void left by the death of the first-born. With the letter came a turquoise brooch, lost—alas—these many years ago by a careless nursemaid. But the box in which it came, a square white wooden box with roses painted on the lid, is now used by a little girl of a later generation in which to keep her treasures.

Dear Friend,

Perhaps 'Baby' will pin her Apron or her Shoe with this? It wassent to me a few Moment's since, but I never wear Jewels—How I would love to see her!

Come show thy Durham Breast
To her who loves thee best—
Delicious Robin,
And if it be not me,
At least within my tree
Do thy crowing—

I am glad you are better, and if to cherish the Cherubim be not too intrepid, desire my love to Baby's Mama—I am glad you are with 'The Elms'—That is a gracious place—

Here follows a poem, published in the second series of the collected verse, which begins 'How happy is the little Stone.' But instead of ending with 'In Casual Simplicity,' as does the published poem, there follow four lines of such power, of such profound and fearless thought, that it is difficult to understand why they were not included.

Obtaining but our own Extent
In whatsoever Realm—
'T was Christ's own personal Expanse
That bore him from the Tomb—

Your Scholar

This little note came evidently with some shy offering of which, sad to say, there is no manner of recollection.

Dear Friend,

Briefly, in Boston, please accept the delayed Valentine for your Little Girl—

It would please me that she take her first walk in Literature with One so often guided on that great route by her Father—

E Dickonson

The last fragment is written on a half page without preface or signature, as if struck hot from the anvil of her soul.

Spurn the temerity—
Rashness of Calvary—
Gay were Gethsemane
Knew we of thee—

In the lower corner of the page is written in another hand, 'Wonderful twelve words! H. J.' [Helen Hunt Jackson].